


XVIII. Burning in the Blackness of the Spring

by BubblyWashingMachine



Series: Every Little Hurt Counts [febuwhump 2021] [18]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blind Character, Disabled Character, FebuWhump2021, Febuwhump, Febuwhumpday18, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Good Sibling Vanya Hargreeves, Happy Ending, Injury Recovery, Luther Hargreeves Needs A Hug, No Romance, POV Luther Hargreeves, Phone Calls & Telephones, Sibling Bonding, Soft Luther Hargreeves, and they deserve to be best friends, hence why i made luther blind, im love him, internalized ableism, luther and vanya are both so awkward, the prompt is I can't See
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29533899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblyWashingMachine/pseuds/BubblyWashingMachine
Summary: When Luther sleeps, he dreams of colours.He dreams of the deep blue sky above the city on a cloudless, dry day, and the dark brown colour of the wooden walls and floors of the mansion. The rich red carpets in the guest rooms that the children had always been forbidden from entering, and the crisp white of a new model airplane just out of the box, ready to be constructed and painted. The soft pink of Mom’s skirts, the warm yellow lights strung up around Allison’s bed, the calming teal of the walls in Five and Ben’s bedrooms, the indigo of the night sky.He thinks that he should have appreciated them more when he had them. Now all he sees is black....A story about Luther and Vanya, set in an alternate universe where the chemical burns that Luther suffers on his last mission don't kill him, and Reginald doesn't have to use the serum. Instead, Luther is blinded.
Relationships: Grace Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Luther Hargreeves & Dr. Pogo, Luther Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves
Series: Every Little Hurt Counts [febuwhump 2021] [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137428
Comments: 24
Kudos: 85





	XVIII. Burning in the Blackness of the Spring

**Author's Note:**

> zero research was done for this fic just so you know. I'm not blind i just have really really terrible eyesight lmao
> 
> I ALSO have a really bad headache and (eyes the word count) I think I know why.  
> Um, this is really cute and I love Luther and Vanya so much and i want them to be friends so badly!! hence why a small idea of luther being blind turned into a 6000 word story about how much i want luther and vanya to be friends. they're both so awkward dammit
> 
> this fic could be better if i had more time to labour over it but i have to finish it already so. i'm deciding that it is complete  
> i am getting. tired of febuwhump. but also; i just remembered that tomorrow's fic is one i'm really excited to write. i hope it doesn't give me a headache again :(
> 
> enjoy!

When Luther sleeps, he dreams of colours.

He dreams of the deep blue sky above the city on a cloudless, dry day, and the dark brown colour of the wooden walls and floors of the mansion. The rich red carpets in the guest rooms that the children had always been forbidden from entering, and the crisp white of a new model airplane just out of the box, ready to be constructed and painted. The soft pink of Mom’s skirts, the warm yellow lights strung up around Allison’s bed, the calming teal of the walls in Five and Ben’s bedrooms, the indigo of the night sky.

He thinks that he should have appreciated them more when he had them. Now all he sees is black.

“Good morning, darling,” Mom says cheerfully, her heels clicking on the floorboards. He hears the sharp sound of something sliding, and feels air against his face – she’s opened the window.

“Hi, Mom,” he says. He sits up in his bed, pushing the blanket down, and, predictably, feels disoriented. His bed is like a safe island in the middle of a turbulent sea – he could swing his legs over, press his bare feet to the cold wood, but he doesn’t. He stays sitting, his hands knotted into the bedsheets, holding on for dear life.

The blackness stretches on in every direction.

She doesn’t comment on the face he must surely be making. “It’s a lovely day.” How would Luther know? “What would you like for breakfast?”

“Um.” Luther tries to focus. His face burns. Breakfast, right, that’s – that’s important. Colours are not. “I don’t mind. Whatever’s easiest.”

“But doting on you children is what brings joy to my days,” Mom says, laughing. “What do you feel like?”

_What children?_ Luther thinks. There’s just him. There’s _only_ him.

He says, “Maybe pancakes, please?”

“Pancakes it is,” Mom agrees. He wonders where she is standing – at the door, or by the bed? Is the sun lighting up the side of her face? Is she smiling, or is she programmed to disable that feature if no one is there to see her? “Would you like to come downstairs, or shall I bring it up?”

Luther thinks about the stairwell, a jagged, empty void of air where every step could mean a snapped neck. His toes curl, and he swallows. “I’ll just eat it here, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

She sounds like she could be smiling – she certainly doesn’t sound sad. But then again, has Mom ever sounded sad? Is she even capable of that?

Luther’s eyes hurt.

Mom’s heels clack further away, with short, practiced steps. For the first time, Luther wonders if she ever takes them off. “Thank you,” he says, when he remembers to, but she’s already gone.

…

Four weeks later, and Luther gets to speak with Dad for the first time since the – accident.

He assumes it must be because Dad doesn’t like to come up to the children’s – Luther’s – quarters.

Making it to Dad’s office is an ordeal, a never-ending cycle of _‘where did that hallway go?’_ and _‘that wall hasn’t always been there,’_ and _‘who thought it would be a good idea for a vase to be put here?’_

Mom, endlessly patient, holds his elbow and lets him cling to her. Pogo, too, shuffles alongside their lame parade anxiously, chiming in with helpful tips while Number One fumbles in the dark, like _“watch out for that – oh dear.”_

Without sight, Luther thinks, everything is so much louder. He doesn’t remember the sound of breaking glass being so awful, like an assault, a piercing stab to the side of the head. Only one side, though – his left ear can barely hear anything, and it’s like an empty dead space. It makes him flinch, and he accidentally cracks Mom’s arm from squeezing too tightly.

“It’s all right, Luther,” she says calmly. “It doesn’t hurt. Please, don’t cry – Pogo will fix me right up and it’ll be as good as new – better, even. It’s all right. Don’t worry yourself about it.”

They make it to Dad’s study eventually, and Luther struggles to remember what it looks like.

“Number One,” Dad says when he arrives, probably examining him indifferently. Luther tilts his head towards the floor as a reflex, but remembers that there is no floor for him to stare at anymore. _Was the fringing on the carpet gold, or brown?_ He wonders.

A clock ticks distantly. Actually, two clocks – the one in the hall is slightly out of sync, and their rhythms do not match up. Luther feels at though he is tilting, sinking.

“Sir,” he manages to say in greeting.

“Your reports do not indicate that there has been any significant improvement in your condition,” Dad says. He sounds disappointed, or annoyed, even possibly angry..

“That is correct, Sir,” he says, trying not to let his voice crack. “There is – no light.” It’s a pretty stupid thing to say.

“And your hearing?”

“My left ear,” Luther says carefully, “is damaged.” No one will tell him very much.

“I see.” There is the creaking of Dad’s chair. “I suppose you are no longer fit to attend missions.” It’s not a question. Number One is now officially useless. “Very well. Dismissed.”

But Luther is rooted to the spot. _That’s… it?_ “Sir?”

“What is it?” Dad snaps.

“I was just wondering if,” Luther swallows. “If you had informed any of my siblings about the – the incident.”

“No, and I don’t intend to,” Dad says sharply. “If the news of your rather embarrassing failure reached the media, the damage to the Academy’s reputation would be catastrophic.”

The word _embarrassing_ rings in Luther’s ears. He wants to ask about Allison, because she wouldn’t tell anyone. Maybe she would come home. But then he thinks about that, really thinks about it, and changes his mind. It’s better this way.

“I understand,” he whispers.

Mom and Pogo help him navigate back up the stairs to his room, and he shuts the door and turns to – he turns –

He turns where?

He’s lost, in his own room.

_Which way am I facing?_

He doesn’t know.

Luther starts to panic, throwing his arms out for something, anything he can touch. He accidentally bats a model plane suspended from the ceiling, and it crashes against his head and then hits the desk on its way down, probably broken into a million useless pieces.

Luther grits his teeth and sinks down onto the floor. He puts his palms flat against the wood and doesn’t cry. Eventually, he crawls across the floor on his hands and knees, like an animal, until he reaches the bed. He stays there.

He thinks about writing poetry about how he feels, and then decides that is a terrible idea. But the words dance across the darkness in his head anyway.

…

Time passes dizzyingly slowly in this new world. It’s wrong. The sun never rises and never sets, he cannot read any clocks, and the night he realises that he’ll never see the stars again, Luther breaks down sobbing. And that’s how he discovers that he can no longer cry.

Allison doesn’t call, and he hates that it doesn’t surprise him.

Mom applies creams and salves to his face, and it never stops hurting, and he hates it. His skin feels alien and horrible, and her hands are always unnaturally cool and smooth, and it’s bad.

Pogo says he’s lucky.

“The chemical burns could have hit your vital organs,” the old chimp says. He must think that makes Luther feel better. “It was quite the miracle that you survived.”

Luther thinks, _I didn’t._ He moves his spoon around in the bowl of oatmeal, and says, “What does it look like?”

“I’m sorry?”

“My face,” Luther says. “The burns.”

“Well, I–” Pogo sounds flustered. “It’s rather difficult to describe.”

“Try.”

Pogo clears his throat uncomfortably. Luther eats a spoonful of mush that tastes like nothing and he likes it. “Well, your vision couldn’t be salvaged.” No shit, thinks Luther. “And your left eye…”

“What about it?”

“It had to be removed in surgery to prevent infection. So there is – scar tissue, there, now.”

Luther feels oddly detached, though he knows any rational person would be upset at having something removed like that. But his body no longer feels like a part of him – he floats, unattached, in the blackness. He can’t even picture it. “What colour is it?”

Pogo hesitates. “Red. Eventually, it will fade to pink.”

“Is it across my whole face?”

“The burns were contained to mostly the upper half,” Pogo says slowly. “And your left ear, as you may know.”

That’s right. He’s half-deaf, isn’t he? Blind, deaf, and useless.

Luther stands up from the table. “I want to go back to my room,” he says, and like clockwork, Mom appears, to shepherd him.

…

“So that you can be independent,” Mom says gently. “I thought you might appreciate it. I ordered it from the finest craftsman your father knows.”

Luther holds the cane in both hands, considers it. It’s absurdly light – to him, it feels like a twig. He knows he could snap it with two fingers, and he can’t begin to imagine how this will help him navigate the darkness.

The word _independent_ weighs him down.

What’s the point?

He never leaves this house.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says. “I do appreciate it.”

He wonders if either of them are smiling.

“Would you like me to put on some of your music?” Mom asks.

Luther says “Sure,” and when she is gone, he pulls the covers over his head and listens to it through the fabric. He wishes he could scratch his skin off.

…

Almost a year after the accident, Luther is sitting on the couch in the living room by himself when he turns on the radio. He doesn’t have very much to do, these days, except listen to things, and sleep so that he can dream about colours. He has a beard, now, because he can’t be trusted to shave on his own, and he doesn’t feel like letting Mom close enough to his face to shave for him. Apparently, Allison is a world-famous movie star. He hasn’t heard anything about the others.

_“—orchestra, featuring the esteemed violinist Vanya Hargreeves, known for her controversial autobiography detailing her upbringing in the infamous Umbrella Academy, will be performing at the—”_

Luther has accidentally knocked the radio off the table, and it smashes against the floor.

“Oh, dear, are you alright?” Mom asks, quickly entering the room. “Oh, be careful, there are sharp pieces. I’ll clean this up, don’t you worry.”

“Vanya wrote an autobiography?” Luther asks, his ears ringing.

“Oh! She did, didn’t she,” Grace says, laughing. “It must have slipped my mind. I’m very proud—”

“I want to read it,” Luther says.

…

No one will read it to him.

Pogo says, “Perhaps it’s for the best that you wait some more time, to—”

“I don’t need more time,” Luther says, feeling anger rise inside him. “I have the rest of time, Pogo. Nothing is ever _changing_ , nothing is going to get better. I want you to read it to me.”

Pogo refuses.

Mom says, “I’m sorry, darling, but your father thinks that—”

Luther, for the first time, doesn’t care what Dad thinks. “Whatever!”

“Do you want a hug?”

“NO!” He uses his stupid twig cane and stumbles clumsily out of the room, and she doesn’t follow him. He feels his way around the familiar paths, and then turns sharply and goes up the stairs to where Five and Ben’s rooms are.

Before the others left, these rooms felt like untouchable shrines, closed off. It was strangely fitting that the two members who died – or probably died – shared that little separate turret together. It made it much easier to ignore what was missing.

Then everyone left, and suddenly all the rooms were like that.

Luther wonders, _were these walls more blue, or more green?_ And finds that he doesn’t know the answer.

He shoves open a door and thinks that it’s almost certainly Five’s room. He taps and edges his way around until he reaches the bed, and sits down heavily. The silence beats inside his head.

He makes up his mind.

…

“Hello?”

Luther feels a burst of emotion at hearing her voice. He didn’t realise how it would make him feel.

“Um, hi,” he says awkwardly, a little choked. “Is this Vanya?”

“What – _Luther_ ,” Vanya says, sounding startled and then a little dejected. He’s honestly shocked she recognised his voice after so long – he never really got to talk to Vanya when they were kids. “I guess you read it, then.”

“Actually, I didn’t,” Luther says truthfully.

There is a pause. “So… did you want something?”

“Um. No.” He curses himself. _God._

Vanya says, “Hey, how did you get this number?”

“Pogo,” Luther answers. He thinks Pogo just agreed to tell him the number to make him stop asking about the book.

“Oh. I didn’t know he even had it,” she says. “So… you really haven’t read it yet?”

“No, I didn’t even hear about it until the other week,” Luther says quickly. “On the radio. No one told me about it, and no one will re- will give me a copy.”

“Okay, well… don’t read it,” she says, sounding tired. “It’s probably better if you don’t.”

“That’s what Pogo said,” Luther grumbles. “Maybe I’d like to decide that for myself, you know?”

“I guess.”

“I just – well, this is going to sound really stupid,” he says, his heart racing. He laughs nervously, the phone slippery in his grasp. He presses it firmly against his remaining good ear. “I…”

When his throat closes up, Vanya prompts him. “What?”

He tries again. “I…”

He can’t say it.

It took him so long to figure out the phone, too.

Vanya waits a bit longer, and then sighs. “Look, I don’t know if you – are you still living at the Academy?”

“Yes, I can’t leave,” Luther says, and suddenly the darkness feels a lot closer. He shakes his head pointlessly, as if that’ll ward it off. “I mean – I don’t do missions, but I live here.”

“What?” Through the phone Vanya sounds confused and a bit perturbed. “Is Dad, like, holding you hostage? Are you okay?”

Luther smiles. “No, no, I just… I can’t…”

_I’m lonely,_ he thinks.

“Do you have agoraphobia?”

“I don’t think so,” Luther says, because he’s not fully sure what that means.

Vanya sighs down the line again. “Look, has Allison called you or anything? Do you know if she read it, or the others?”

“I haven’t talked to anyone,” Luther says, and then adds, “recently,” to make it sound less sad.

“Oh.” Vanya is silent for a second, and then she admits, “I think writing the book was a mistake.”

“Why?” Luther asks.

She doesn’t answer.

He tries to fill the gap in conversation inelegantly. “What’s it about, anyway? The radio said it was about your – childhood? Is it about us, too?”

“Yeah,” she says, sounding uncomfortable. “It’s about everyone. But mostly me.”

“Good for you,” he says, because he isn’t sure what else to say. “I didn’t know you liked writing.” He thinks about the phase he went through where he wrote poetry.

“Do you really know anything about me?” Vanya asks abruptly, and then immediately says, “Sorry. It’s been – a long week.”

“It’s fine,” he says, quickly. “You’re right. I don’t know much about you.”

“I guess that’s fair,” she says after a long second. “I don’t know very much about you, either.”

_No, you don’t,_ Luther thinks, and feels relieved. “So, you’re in an orchestra? How’s that going?”

“It’s good,” Vanya says, a smile in her voice. “I’m third chair.”

“That’s… good?” Luther says, a bit lost, and she laughs.

“Yeah. Well, first chair is the best, but third is…”

“Better than fourth,” Luther guesses, and he feels the corners of his mouth turn up.

“Sure,” Vanya says amused. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“You were always so good at violin though,” he adds. “So I’m sure you’ll get to the first chair eventually.”

“I didn’t realise you ever listened,” Vanya says quietly.

“Yeah, we practically shared a wall, remember?” The idea that she could have forgotten scares him, and all of a sudden it really hits him – everyone else has moved on. Everyone else has jobs, hobbies – and Luther is stuck here. “It was nice, listening to you play.”

“That’s really sweet,” Vanya murmurs. “I had no idea you listened.”

The call gets cut short when she suddenly has to go, claiming she completely forgot that she was supposed be at rehearsal.

“I’m sorry,” she says over and over, sounding very flustered. “Oh, God, I’m such a mess. Um – it was nice talking to you. I’m glad you called.”

“I’m glad I called too,” Luther says. “Maybe – um, maybe—”

“We can call again?”

“I’d like that. If that’s okay.”

“Alright,” she sounds surprised. “Same time next week?”

“I don’t know what time it is,” he says.

“I think being in that house really messes with your perception of reality,” Vanya muses, maybe thinking that he’s joking.

With goodbyes that are only slightly embarrassing, they part, and he waits for her to hang up.

He puts the phone down. His pulse races.

He’s already buzzing with anticipation for the next call.

…

Luther has a nightmare about the accident, and wakes up screaming, thinking that his face is on fire. He covers his mouth and sobs without tears. He’s sweated through his sheets.

Sometimes the night-time is not so bad, because the darkness at least feels familiar.

But he used to be able to turn on a lamp.

He anxiously waits for the week to pass so that he can call Vanya again.

...

“I ran into Diego the other day,” Vanya says, four phone calls later. It’s turned into the weekly event that is the highlight of his social calendar – the only thing that grounds him in reality sometimes. Luther leans back in his chair, chewing on a biscuit.

“Oh, yeah? What’s he up to?”

“He’s vigilante-ing,” she sighs. “I almost got mugged, and he swooped in. It was so awkward.” Vanya has opened up to Luther about her book lately, still insisting he doesn’t read it – it sounds like something Diego would take _very_ badly.

“So he’s fighting crime,” Luther says. “I wish I could do that.”

“Well, you could if you wanted,” Vanya says, which isn’t true. “But I don’t think you should.”

“No?”

“I think he needs to grow up,” Vanya says. “Get a real job, or something. He can’t keep doing that forever.”

Luther hums. He isn’t sure how he feels about it. A part of him is jealous, but – he thinks about the last mission he went on, and shivers. “Maybe you’re right.”

“But he told me—” Vanya sounds terribly guilty. “He said it was my fault he had to leave the police academy. My book.”

“That’s probably just an excuse,” Luther dismisses.

“Maybe. He said that I had no right to tell the world about our Dad’s abuse and stuff. I think he was humiliated, Luther.”

“Dad didn’t abuse us,” Luther says, shocked.

Silence.

He fumbles for the words. “Wait, Vanya, hold on. Did he, _hit_ you, or something? Did I not…?”

“No, no,” Vanya says quickly. “Not that kind of abuse. Emotional abuse, manipulation, neglect.”

Suddenly Luther goes cold all over, and is acutely aware of his blindness, his weakness. What if Dad’s listening? What if these calls are being tapped? “That’s not – he didn’t.”

“Luther,” Vanya says sadly. “He did.”

That conversation lasts many hours.

…

The list of things Luther knows about Vanya grows steadily, but he is careful not to tell her too much. The lie feels like a mask that he slips on comfortably over his own tight skin every time she calls.

He hasn’t seen – heard – Dad in months. It’s like they don’t even live in the same house. And after everything, Luther isn’t sure he cares. Weeks after the difficult conversation with Vanya, which he’s still processing, Luther stands by the phone in anticipation. Vanya should call any minute now.

The phone rings and he scrambles to answer it, almost dropping it. He answers on the second ring, and says breathlessly, “Hello?”

But Vanya doesn’t sound happy. “Hi, Luther,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, concerned. Vanya is normally so composed, and almost cold. Even when discussing emotional subjects like her book, her guilt, or her loneliness, she recites the facts with a detachment that Luther finds familiar.

“Sorry – I just,” she pauses. “You know. Today.”

“What’s today?”

There is a pause. “It’s the eighth anniversary of… Ben.”

Shame washes over him like a bucket of water. _How_ could he have not known? “Oh, of course, I – I forgot. I’m sorry. _God_.”

“It’s okay,” she says.

“No, it’s _not_. I just – I don’t have a calendar.”

“It’s fine.” Vanya sniffles. “Do you… do you ever wonder if Klaus can see him? Ben, I mean?”

“He would have told us,” Luther says, sitting down in his phone call chair. “Right?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He thinks. “What did you say about Ben? In your book, I mean.”

“I wasn’t as kind as I should have been,” Vanya confesses. “Well, that could summarize the whole book, really. I think I called him a bookworm or something. I haven’t actually re-read the book since I stopped doing those live readings.”

Luther has learnt that Vanya wasn’t very nice about him in her book, but he gets it. He was never lonely growing up like she was – now that he has had a taste of it, he doesn’t hold it against her. People do bad things when they’re angry and hurt. “Well I bet you were kinder about Ben than you were about Diego,” he jokes.

Vanya laughs a little. “Hm, I guess that’s true. Well, they say not to speak ill of the dead, anyway.”

“They do,” Luther says thoughtfully. And then, “I wonder what happened to Five.”

There is quiet on the other end. “Yeah.”

He chews on his lip.

“I still miss him,” Vanya says. “Five, and Ben too. Even though it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb to miss somebody,” Luther says, frowning. “It’s fine. That’s normal.”

“Yeah, but,” she groans. “It’s not like I think they’re coming back. I’m not that naïve. So what’s the point of missing them after all this time?”

“I think that’s normal. They were your friends.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second, and Luther listens to the faint buzzing inside the phone. Then she says, “You miss Allison too, right? She’s all the way in L.A.”

“Um, yes,” Luther says, his cheeks getting hot. “Yeah, I guess so.”

But does he? He doesn’t know what he’d do if she were actually here. He can’t even imagine what her face would look like – it’s been about seven years since he saw her in person, and it’s been over a year since he saw anything at all.

“Do you know… if she ever read those things I wrote about her?”

Luther decides that it’s okay to reveal a little bit of truth this time. “Well, actually—”

“Oh, no,” Vanya groans. “She hates me, doesn’t she?”

“No,” Luther says. “I haven’t spoken to Allison.”

“Huh? Since when?”

“Since she left,” Luther says stiffly. “Actually, you’re the only person I’ve spoken to. The others – haven’t kept in touch.”

“You haven’t… at all?”

“No.”

“Luther, I’m—” she cuts herself off. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says automatically. It’s not like he wants to see – hah – any of them, really. What would they say? He thinks they wouldn’t even care, and it’s nicer not knowing. “I’m – fine.”

It sounds weak, even to him.

“Would you… would you like to come see my orchestra perform this Friday?” She asks, like she’s expecting him to refuse.

And guilt swallows him. He fidgets. “Uh, well, I’ve never… I don’t know…”

“That’s okay! Um, you don’t have to.”

“No, it’s just—” He flails. “I’m – bad at… I have nothing to wear.”

Silence.

Vanya says, in a hurt voice, “If you don’t want to come, you can just say—"

“It’s not that!” he cries, desperate for her to not think he’s awful. “That’s just – a lot of people. In a theatre. I don’t think I could… manage. In a crowd like that.” He swallows.

“You do have agoraphobia,” she mutters. “Don’t you?”

“Is that the opposite of claustrophobia?” He asks.

“It’s where you’re afraid of people so you stay inside the house.”

“Um. I don’t think that’s exactly what I have.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t believe him. Why is it so important to her? “Well, you don’t have to come to the concert.”

“Actually,” he says, “next time you call. Would you play me something? It’s been a long time.”

“Of course,” she says brightly. “I’d love that.”

“Thank you.” Luther leans his head against the back of his chair, staring into nothing.

…

“I love poetry,” he tells her a few weeks later. “It’s so… beautiful. The words.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Maybe,” he says. “I think so.” He stole the bottles from the cabinet.

“Huh. Congratulations?”

“Thank you. What’s your favourite poem?”

“Oh, um,” she thinks for a long time. “That one from the Regina Spektor song. _Apres Moi_?”

“I don’t know…”

“Well, it’s in Russian in the song,” Vanya says, “even though the title is French. And I don’t know if I remember it correctly, but this is the translation – are you listening?” He’s thinking about how Vanya speaks Russian. That’s very impressive – he wishes he spoke Russian.

“Always listening.”

“Okay, so,” she clears her throat. “February. Get ink, shed tears. Write of it, sob your heart out, sing; while the torrential slush that roars, burns in the blackness of the spring.”

“I really like that,” Luther says, feeling like someone just scooped his insides out. “That’s – wow.”

“Right?” She sighs deeply. “I love it.”

“Me too.”

He wraps his arms around himself.

…

Luther realises, a month later, that without even trying to, his days have started to have structure again. Every day, he forces himself out of bed, because he thinks that’s what Vanya would tell him to do. He eats breakfast, and lets Mom apply the salves all over his burns, which are now just tight, odd-feeling patches of skin across his eyes and the left side of his head. He didn’t even notice that they stopped burning at night.

He even lets Mom shave his beard, and runs a hand across the smooth, slightly scratchy skin, and he likes the feel of it. She cuts his hair, too – he hadn’t realised how long it had grown. Well, it doesn’t grow all over – his left side is too damaged – but she says it looks neat and handsome. That makes him smile.

Vanya starts playing violin concerts for him every time they call, and she doesn’t ask him to come see her play again, but she does say other things.

“My apartment is so shitty,” she says, laughing. “I’m thinking about moving.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Luther says, recalling how she often complains about her neighbours and terrible piping systems. And the heating. “Thinking _seriously_ , or just thinking?”

“Well, sort of seriously,” she says, noncommittally. “Maybe if I got a bigger place, you could come stay some days. Not all the time, if you didn’t want, I just mean – if you wanted to get out of that house. It could be nice. I know that I – I would want to get out of there.” Obviously. Since she left.

Luther is frozen, holding the phone to his good ear in shock. “That’s really kind,” he says stiltedly. “I really, appreciate, the thought.”

“It was just a thought I had,” she says nervously, quickly, then changes the subject. “Anyway, you wouldn’t believe one of my students, she’s—”

Later that night, Luther lies underneath the blankets and imagines the constellations. All the things he has forgotten, and yet _their_ images are ingrained into him. He misses the light. But he thinks that in his head they might look even more beautiful than he remembers.

_Would it really be so bad to tell Vanya?_

In the end, the choice is easier to make than he expected.

He falls, one week later.

Luther, on his way to the kitchen, trips over a section of carpet that wasn’t flat, and he falls down the stairs, hitting his head against the banister and spraining his wrist in the process. _At least,_ he thinks amusedly as he lies at the bottom of the stairwell with no energy to get up _, I can see the stars._

…

When we wakes, he’s in the infirmary, the smell of antiseptic and Mom’s cleaning supplies hanging in the air.

“You took quite the nasty tumble,” Mom says, tutting. He turns his head in her direction.

“What time is it?”

“Past noon,” she says, and he jerks up.

“Oh, shit, Mom, I have to call Vanya – where’s my cane?”

“Young man, you’re in no condition to be getting up and about!”

He ignores her and gets up anyway. “Has the phone been ringing?”

“Yes,” Pogo answers out of nowhere. “Don’t worry. I took the liberty of informing miss Vanya of your fall, and she was very understanding.”

“What – _what_ did you tell her?” Luther stumbles, feeling dizzy. “I have to call her.”

“I simply told her that you tripped down the stairs,” Pogo says, sounding confused, and apologetic. “I’m sorry if that was inappropriate information to share; she was simply concerned for your well-being.”

“Oh, no, no,” Luther says, gripping the edge of the countertop. Mom tugs gently at his shoulder, perhaps trying to guide him back to the bed, but he shakes her off. “I have to – she’s going to—”

…

Luther eventually gets to the phone and calls Vanya – she picks up immediately.

“Luther!” She sounds so worried. “Pogo told me you fell! Are you okay? I wanted to come to the mansion I was so worried but, I know you don’t like seeing people and I didn’t want to make you—”

“Hi, Vanya,” he says fondly. “I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that!” She snaps. “You always say that – I can tell you’re lying!” She heaves for breath, and sniffles. She must have been really scared. He shrinks guiltily.

“I’m sorry. For scaring you. And for lying.”

“Are you okay? For real?” Her voice softens.

“Sometimes,” he answers honestly, his eye burning in the way that it does when he wants to cry but can’t. “It’s getting better.”

“Do you – did you hurt yourself?”

“I really did fall down the stairs,” he says. “That part is true.” He could still lie. He could still not tell her. But he will.

“How?” She begs. “Why?”

“Because I—” he feels his face crumple, and clings to the phone desperately. “I can’t _see_.”

For a second, there is only silence.

Vanya says;

“At _all_?”

“I’m completely blind,” he says for the first time, choked, and then he starts to gasp and shake. “I can’t see anything, Vanya. I can’t _do_ anything.”

“Oh my God,” Vanya says, at a loss. “I’m coming over.”

“Okay.”

“Just stay there,” she instructs him, and he hears her picking up some keys.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he cries, not wanting her to hang up. Shame is red and hot across his neck. “I just…”

“I’m coming over,” she repeats, gentler, and then she hangs up.

…

Luther isn’t sure exactly how long it takes for Vanya to get there. He stands in the front hall and paces knowing Pogo and Mom are loitering in the other room but not really wanting them right now.

The silence is unbearable.

And then – the slamming of a car door.

The squeaking of a metal gate, and footsteps frantically clattering up the steps and then the front door is open, and a breeze of cold wind hits him, and then Vanya is there. He can tell. He fidgets, self-conscious for the first time in a long while.

“Can I hug you?” She asks, taking a step forward.

He can’t speak. So he just nods, and then he has a big warm armful of Vanya.

She’s – very small. Smaller than he remembers – maybe he just grew. He tries not to squeeze her too tightly, knowing that his arms completely envelop her. _Breakable,_ he thinks.

“It’s good to see you,” she whispers.

He laughs and it comes out more like a sob. “I’d say the same, but, you know…”

“Oh, my God,” she says again, laughing and crying into his jacket. “Are you _taller_?”

“I think you shrunk.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, and doesn’t let go of him. “You – you were burned, weren’t you?”

“Yeah. Chemical burns,” he says. “I know it’s ugly.” Well, he assumes.

“Don’t be _dumb_ ,” she says, her shoulders shaking. “I’m so glad you’re alive. Does it hurt?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, pressing his lips together tightly. “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

Vanya’s voice trembles. “That’s good.”

“Um. I promise I’m really emotional right now. I just can’t cry.”

“Like, you physically can’t?”

“It’s annoying,” he says roughly. “It’s so unsatisfying. It _really_ sucks.”

“I can only imagine,” she says. “It’s okay. I can cry enough for both of us.”

“Is this the first time we’ve ever hugged?”

“I think so. Is it weird? I can let go.”

“It’s not weird. Don’t.”

About four years later.

“I’m home,” Vanya shouts, unnecessarily. There is the familiar _thunk_ of her violin case being propped up against the wall. The door shuts, and Luther hears her keys drop, and the rustling of her shrugging off a wet coat. “And I have news. Where are you?”

“My room,” he says. He leans back from where he’s been hunched over his typewriter for the last hour or so. He stretches out his limbs and shakes his wrists out. “What’s the news?”

Vanya walks from the entrance of the apartment, to his room, pausing to take off her shoes and toss them onto her own bed. “Well, the less _interesting_ news is that you’ve got letters,” she says, and he hears the tearing of paper. “The first one is from Pogo… nothing out of the ordinary… and the other one - oh, it’s from that publisher! They want two more poems for the book. So you can hit a hundred pages, I think.”

“Well… I’m working on that.”

“She wants you to work faster, I guess.”

Luther frowns. Rude. “And what’s the more interesting news?”

Vanya pauses, and pulls out the other chair to sit beside him. “Well, um. Dad’s dead.”

Luther freezes.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, and puts a hand on his shoulders. “Heart attack. You okay?”

“So… they’ll be a funeral?”

“Mm, probably,” she says. “Do you want to go?”

“Do you?”

“Um, I guess. It might be nice to meet up with everyone.”

“Are you sure about that?” He hears the disbelief in his own voice, and she snickers.

“Okay, probably not. But you never know.”

Luther hesitates.

Though the years have passed in a blur, none of them have involved any complicated family discussions about Luther’s disability – because none of the Hargreeves siblings have run into each other. But it was bound to happen eventually.

“Hey,” Vanya says softly. “I’ll be there with you. It’ll be okay. Or – we can just _not_ go. Totally up to you.”

Luther thinks about that big, old, empty house, and the dangerous stairwell, and the robot mother, and his room with the tiny bed.

“We should go,” he says, surprising himself. “We can just go for an hour, and if it’s horrible, we can leave and get doughnuts instead.”

“Sure, that sounds good to me,” Vanya says, and Luther smiles.

“Will you play me something?”

“Of course.” She pushes her chair back and gets up, yawning loudly. “Then bed.”

“Then bed,” he agrees.

When she plays, the notes ringing out clear and rich in their apartment, Luther leans his head on his hands, and he thinks of thirteen-year-old Vanya sticking her tongue out in concentration, and tinny violin notes being played through the phone, and stars lighting up the darkness around him.

And when he sleeps, he dreams of colours.

**Author's Note:**

> i am soft  
> fun fact my entire planning for this fic (i have them all planned out) was just the words "luther chemical burns in eyes he's BLIND NOW!!!!!!" not even kidding. and it turned into. THIS
> 
> see you tomorrow!!  
> \- very headachey, 11pm finley


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